


What Once Was Full, Now Empty

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reunion, The Empty Hearse, white orchid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally makes it back to London and back into John's life. But John has moved on and doesn't need Sherlock anymore. Does he? (Spoilers for The Empty Hearse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Once Was Full, Now Empty

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from the lovely Monochrome-Mink over on dA. She prompted me with Johnlock and I wrote this after watching The Empty Hearse. Amazing episode and I absolutely loved it. I didn't include Mary in this because I wanted it to be about John and Sherlock, not the three of them.
> 
> And I hope the title makes sense. I tried to be a little poetic with it and I rather liked it.

A little over two years now that black marble headstone stood in the cemetery. A little over two years of rain and sun and wind and flowers left by people who believed. The shiny black gloss hasn’t changed at all, the name Sherlock Holmes still emblazoned in silver lettering. It was simple, bold-face font, upfront and oh-so-perfectly Sherlock. At least in John’s opinion. The headstone was much like the detective himself: tall, elegant, simple on the surface but hiding a wealth of unique and wonderful beneath its exterior. And the unique and wonderful this headstone hid was the body of the man John loved. Still loved, really, even after two years. Two long years without his miracle.

“Sorry I didn’t come before,” John whispered to the tombstone, standing at parade rest before it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t speak any louder. His throat locked up at any thought of Sherlock, of the gaping hole that still had ragged, bleeding edges deep inside him. “On the anniversary, I mean. Couldn’t face it then.”

A butterfly floated through the air, wings bearing it on the breath of wind that breezed through the cemetery. It was a lovely day, just a touch brisk with the sun shining down. For just a moment, the butterfly alighted on Sherlock’s headstone and fluttered its iridescent blue wings before taking off again. John watched it sadly, smiling slightly as the color of its wings matched the color of Sherlock’s eyes in his memory. It had been so long since he’d seen those eyes alive, bright with adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. Or with the love that had grown between them, shining in the dark hours of the night as they moved against each other. Turning his attention back to the headstone, John was reminded strongly of the silence. It was quiet and peaceful here in the cemetery, much as it was quiet in the flat though there was little peace to be had.

“Haven’t I waited long enough, Sherlock?” John choked out, fighting back the tears that built in his eyes. This was the first time since the funeral he’d been able to face this expanse of black marble, the first time he’d forced himself to come back and confront the undeniable proof of Sherlock’s death. Of his absence. “I know you could do it. Come back, I mean. If anyone could, just to prove he could, you could. Give me my miracle, Sherlock. Come back to me.”

He stood for a few moments more, staring at the silver words and feeling his heart break yet again. Of course there would be no answer. A headstone couldn’t speak and the body buried so far below couldn’t either. John sighed and bowed his head, two small tears leaking from his eyes and tracking down his cheeks. Sherlock really was gone and there was no miracle coming. Taking a deep breath, John lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Sometimes, his training was the only thing that got him through the day. One couldn’t cry at attention after all. Swallowing hard, John gave the headstone a little nod, dropped the white orchid he’d been holding on the top of the headstone, and turned on his heel. He had patients at the clinic and his shift started soon. As he walked away, John thought this might be the last time he ever visited Sherlock’s grave. It felt no different than being in their flat, really. After all, Sherlock was in his bones and breath and John carried him everywhere with him.

Sorrowful blue eyes watched as the doctor walked away stiffly, shoulders held rigidly tight. They continued to watch as John walked out through the gates of the cemetery and flagged down a cab, sliding in with a little hitch in his leg. While the doctor’s limp had not come back completely, some days his leg was weaker than others. And today had not been the best day. Sherlock waited until the cab pulled away before sliding out from behind the tree and stepping up in front of his own grave. A little shiver went down Sherlock’s back at seeing his own name on the black marble. While he knew that what he’d done had been the best path to take to protect those closest to him, Sherlock deeply regretted the pain he was putting John through. And he regretted the dark and lonely hours on the hunt without the stalwart man at his side, protecting him as he had the first case they ever worked.

“Just a little longer, John,” Sherlock said quietly, staring mournfully down at the riot of colorful flowers that adorned his headstone. Scratching idly at the beard he’d grown, it was amazingly itchy and Sherlock couldn’t wait to get rid of it, Sherlock studied the headstone. It was immediately apparent that whomever had picked it out had had an excellent grasp of what he would have picked himself. Most likely John then, Sherlock concluded. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Of course John would know best. Stooping down slightly, Sherlock picked up the white orchid and sniffed delicately at the petals. How apt for John to choose a white orchid. The meaning was a complex and sensual one, white orchids often gifted to those who meant the most to the giver, their truest and sincerest love. Sherlock had made a study of flowers and their meanings a long time ago for a case and, for some reason, the information had stuck in his mind palace. He’d given John a white orchid after the first time they slept together, when Sherlock realized just how much the other man had come to mean to him. How deeply John had become ingrained in his mind and in his blood. “I promise you won’t have to wait too much longer. You’ll have your miracle, John.”

\----------------------------------------------

Two weeks later and Sherlock was finally able to _officially_ come back to London. He’d had to finish up one little task for Mycroft, though little was a bit of an understatement. Honestly, you’d think Sherlock would have learned not to take Mycroft at his word when it came to legwork. But now, he was reclining in a chair and letting a barber shave off the infernally itchy beard and cut his hair. It took every effort to keep himself still and not snap at the poor man for going slowly. Sherlock knew exactly how much skill was needed to shave someone with a straight razor and he didn’t want any cuts to mar his skin. Plus, lying back like this let him avoid Mycroft’s smug face.

“Do you know how frustrating it was, having to infiltrate that group to come to your rescue, dear brother?” Mycroft asked, taking a sip from his teacup. “I despise legwork. That’s why I sent you in the first place.”

“I didn’t need your help, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped back, rolling his eyes as the barber drew the razor over his cheek. “I was able to effect my own escape while you sat and watched. Tell me, _brother_ , why didn’t you intervene _before_ I was beaten to a bloody pulp?”

“I couldn’t very well now jeopardize the identity I’d created infiltrating them, now could I?” Mycroft replied easily though a small smile danced on his lips. Which Sherlock heard quite clearly, especially as he’d been listening for it. Sitting up, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and studied Mycroft closely.

“You were enjoying it,” Sherlock stated, glaring at Mycroft. Mycroft merely shrugged and pulled a “Would I do that?” face but Sherlock wasn’t having any of it. “You enjoyed it.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t waver but Sherlock saw clearly as his brother wasn’t making any special efforts to hide what he was feeling. After an infinitesimal nod, knowing he was quite correct, Sherlock settled back down and let the barber finish his work. Sherlock wanted to look as much like himself as possible when he saw John again. Once the barber was finished, Anthea brought in a simple suit and a crisp white shirt. Sherlock changed into the clothes with a sense of relief. For far too long, he’d been living in the garb of a homeless person. He’d missed his own clothing, missed who he was when he wore them.

“I assume you’ll be going to see John,” Mycroft said as Sherlock slipped into his jacket.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, smiling in anticipation. “Thought I’d pop around the flat, maybe burst out of a cake.”

“You should know John took your death very hard,” Mycroft cautioned, just sighing at the sheer joy on Sherlock’s face. Really, feelings? “He may not be happy to see you. Plus, he’s got on with his life. Built his own practice at the clinic he works at.”

“What life?” Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose in disbelief. “I’ve been away.”

Mycroft just shook his head as Sherlock walked out, almost bouncing in exuberance. He would learn and Mycroft would eat his favorite umbrella if John didn’t end up punching Sherlock in some way. He’d looked like his old self in the coat Anthea had brought in last and obviously was thrilled to be wearing it again. Mycroft turned to Anthea, carefully considering his options. That he would have his brother watched during his reunion with John was without doubt. The only question was the level.

“Have two agents shadow Sherlock,” Mycroft said decisively, nodding as the plan fell into place. “I don’t care if they’re seen or not but they must not let Sherlock evade them. I want to know the instant he meets John again.”

Anthea nodded and pulled out her phone to text the orders. Mycroft settled back behind his desk and drank some more of his tea. Several possible scenarios ran through his mind for the outcome of Sherlock and John’s reunion. Many of them included bodily harm of some sort and Mycroft had to smile at that. John definitely had a temper, though it was difficult to piss him off enough to bring him to physical violence. Yet Sherlock was one of the few people who could with just a sentence or two. And only a few of those scenarios ended with John refusing to let Sherlock back into his life. Which, considering Sherlock before John and after, was only for the good. While Mycroft might feel no need of... friends, Sherlock obviously needed John in his life.

\---------------------------------------------------

John couldn’t quite believe he was sitting in a fancy restaurant right now when all he wanted to be doing was sitting on the couch at home watching crappy telly. But it was Mrs. Hudson’s birthday and he’d taken her to dinner. He’d rather neglected her lately, had rather neglected everything and everyone but his work at the clinic, and felt guilty about it. Besides, she was happy and excited and John really did care for the woman. So, for Mrs. Hudson, John would sit here and force a smile onto his face when he was tired of people. Today had not been a good day at the clinic.

“And I must say, thank you so much, John,” Mrs. Hudson said, reaching across the table and resting her hand on his. “It means a lot to me, you taking me to dinner for my birthday. It’s nice to talk with you again.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied, a small but genuine smile crossing his face. “I am sorry for not being there.”

“I know, dear, and it’s all right,” Mrs. Hudson replied quietly, sorrow flashing in her eyes. “It was hard on you after... Well, after.”

“May I tempt you with a wine selection?” a waiter interrupted in a thick French accent. He stood close to John’s side, a wine menu held out in one hand. John didn’t bother looking at the man but took the menu with a sigh.

“What do you recommend?” John asked, scanning the wine menu without even the slightest inkling of what to order. Wine wasn’t really his drink of choice. “We’re here for a birthday.”

“We have a wonderful red, a very good year,” the waiter continued, voice rather high-pitched. The tone grated on John’s nerves and he tuned out as much of the man’s words as he could and still understand. “Also a white that just came in, if you prefer white. It is a delicate mix of sweet and tart with just a hint of honey. Like meeting someone from the past you never thought you’d see again.”

“That sounds fine,” John said, handing the menu back and taking a drink of his water.

“It’s like longing for something and finally getting it,” the waiter continued. “Or we have champagne if you’d prefer to celebrate. Bright and bubbly, like a wish finally granted.”

“Well, surprise me,” John said, a touch exasperated as he focused back on the conversation the waiter had interrupted.

“I am endeavoring to, sir,” the waiter muttered, some of the accent slipping from his voice. He walked away and headed into the restaurant’s wine cellar to select a bottle. Of course he knew John didn’t know wines, wouldn’t know an expensive bottle from boxed wine. But Sherlock took a few moment’s longer than he might have normally, wanting to choose something good. Finally, one bottle stood out and Sherlock grabbed it with a smile.

“Here we are, sir,” Sherlock said once he was back at John’s table. The French accent was back too but John still wouldn’t look at him. Sherlock poured a glass of the wine and dropped the accent, handing it to John. “Surprise, John.”

“Sh...,” was all John could get out as he shakily shot to his feet. It was him, Sherlock standing alive and smiling in front of him. Smiling as if he had pulled off the most amazing trick and was waiting for John to praise him for it. “You... you’re here.”

“To make a very long and involved story as concise as possible,” Sherlock said, slanting a smile at Mrs. Hudson. “Not dead.”

“T... two... two years,” John stammered, taking big gulping breaths as he struggled to stay on his feet. “You let me believe, hmm, for two _bloody_ years, that you were, hmm, dead. And now... you just show up... with a damn bottle of, hmm, wine!”

“Yes, well, I thought the wine might be a nice touch,” Sherlock replied, smile fading slowly as John continued to breathe in huge gulps with a look of fury on his face. This wasn’t going quite as he’d imagined. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

John just stared for a moment, then slammed his fist into the table. He launched himself at Sherlock, grabbing the lapels of his suit as they both crashed to the floor. John was growling incoherently and nearly strangling Sherlock as all of his anger and frustration and sorrow poured out of him. That, of course, got them all kicked out of the restaurant. Mrs. Hudson, after hugging Sherlock hard and welcoming him back, took a cab back to her flat while John and Sherlock just stared at each other on the sidewalk in the cold. Sherlock had a small cut on his lip that had finally stopped bleeding.

“So you’re back,” John said flatly, shoulders hunched and hands in the pockets of his coat against the cold. “You’re not dead.”

“Yes and I’m very much alive,” Sherlock replied, smiling a little and hissing in pain as the cut on his lip pulled. “I’m sorry, John, for keeping you in the dark for two years. I want things to go back to what they were before, the thrill of the chase, just the two of us against the world. Mycroft has actually given me a case, one involving terrorists right here in London. What do you say?”

“I say... no,” John replied after thinking hard for a moment. “I say, I’m going home and going to bed. And no, you are not coming with me. I need to figure out how I feel about this, Sherlock, and where I want this to go. You were _dead_ you bloody bastard! I moved on with my life with you gone. It may not be as exciting as it was before but it was all I had. Good night, Sherlock. Welcome back to London.”

“But... John...,” Sherlock murmured to John’s retreating back as the other man walked away. This was nothing like what he’d expected, had hoped for. To be honest, Sherlock had thought John would be thrilled and welcome him back with open arms. There was an undefinable ache, deep in his chest as Sherlock watched John leave. His fingers itched to touch John again, to run over the skin he knew as well as his own and card through hair that was soft and silky to the touch. Sherlock wanted to kiss John again, all the little and big kisses they’d taught each other, to pepper two year’s worth of kisses all over John as he apologized over and over until that hurt left the other man’s eyes. But it wasn’t to be, at least not this night. This night, Sherlock would go back to the hotel room he’d been staying in since he’d gotten back to London. There was no way he was going to stay with his brother in Mycroft’s flat. And while Mycroft would know if this nearly as quickly as it happened, Sherlock wouldn’t have to deal with the gloating that he’d been wrong. Now to just work on this terrorist case.

\----------------------------------------------

The next few days, John stolidly went to work and ignored the fact that Sherlock was living and breathing and here in London. He was angry beyond words at the detective and he still missed him fiercely. To just walk in on him like that, expecting John to not be angry! To have Sherlock expect John to just rush back into the life he’d left behind and chase after some terrorists was completely like Sherlock. And the fact that he was just a breath away from doing it only added to John’s anger. He had a life now without Sherlock.

“Another flu, John,” the nurse called through his door as she escorted a patient in. It was the fourth person suffering from what seemed to be the flu in the last two hours. It was monotonous, it was dull, but it was what he had. As John saw to his patient, flickers of memory flashed through his mind. Crazy chases, Chinese acrobats, running through the streets and over the rooftops of London. They all competed with the normalcy and... ordinary-ness of his life now. He shrugged the memories away, determined to stick with his current life. After all, while John might still love Sherlock dearly, that hadn’t precluded him from considering dating the pretty nurse he worked with lately.

“Sorry but it seems to be the day of the flu,” the nurse said, sending John an apologetic grimace as she led another patient in after the previous one. “Wonder why it’s going around now.”

“No problem,” John forced a smile at the nurse, who suddenly didn’t look quite as appealing as she had before. She was shorter than him, with sunny blond hair and a dark complexion. Nothing at all like a certain tall, pale, dark-haired, completely infuriating man. And seeing yet another patient who snuffled and had circles under their eyes, John made up his mind. He was bored beyond all reason in his job and, really, he was being childish. He _wanted_ to go back to his old life, wanted Sherlock there with all the excitement and danger and adrenaline. After the dull hours passed, John headed home and made a cup of tea. He set out a second cup, smiling that he didn’t have to put it back in the cabinet this time. Then, he sent a simple text and waited.

“Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway,” came Sherlock’s voice from the doorway. Of course he’d still have a key. A thread of pride wound through Sherlock’s voice and a desperate hope. “Using my own words. Poetic, John. What would you like to discuss?”

“Sit,” John said, a touch of command coming into his voice. It was something he’d learned with Sherlock, something he’d been rather surprised about. If he used what he’d come to call his captain voice, Sherlock often listened without complaint. This time was no different, though more than a hint of a smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. John poured the second cup of tea, dropping in two sugar cubes before handing it to Sherlock. “I want you to explain. _Why_ did you let me believe you were dead for two years?”

“You know Moriarty’s goal was to completely destroy my reputation, yes?” Sherlock asked, toying with the cup after his first sip. “He wanted me to kill myself, that’s what the whole thing was about. Ruin my life beyond repair and get me to die. He would win at that point. I had deduced it far before that and had an escape plan ready. Then Moriarty did something I never would have expected. After he explained that he had snipers assigned to the people I cared for most, he killed himself. He was the only one who could have called them off. I had to appear to die so that I could keep everyone safe. Keep you safe, John.”

“You couldn’t tell me anything?” John asked, voice cracking a bit. “Just one word, Sherlock, that you were still alive?”

“I couldn’t risk you, John,” Sherlock replied, putting his teacup down and slipping off the chair. He knelt down in front of John, making an aborted move to take John’s hand. They’d been very tactile before but Sherlock didn’t think touching would be welcome right now. “If you behaved in any way as if you believed I were alive, you would have been killed. I couldn’t let that happen. Forgive me, please, I’ll give you a thousand apologies. I am truly, deeply sorry for the pain I put you through, John.”

“This doesn’t mean I’m not angry at you anymore,” John said, leaning forward and pulling Sherlock into a tight hug. He tucked his head into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder, fitting back together with the other man as if they’d never been apart. He felt the tension leave Sherlock’s shoulders and the hitching breaths on his temple. And it was just as easy as that. They were Sherlock and John again, though there would be rough patches and arguments later. Pulling back just enough to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips, John let out a shaky laugh. “You know, the day of your funeral, I stood in front of your headstone and begged for a miracle. I asked you not to be dead.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, smiling with genuine relief. “I heard you.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat where a single flower had been tucked carefully, a little bulb of water on the stem keeping it fresh. Pulling it out, Sherlock held the white orchid out to John with bated breath. This was the symbol of their relationship, cliche as it was. While other objects represented their cases and were easily recognizable by others, this flower was just for them. John took it, feeling as if his smile would break his jaw. He set it carefully next to his teacup and pulled Sherlock back in for another kiss. This one was less chaste than the first, heat building between them. John nibbled at Sherlock’s bottom lip for a moment, remembering how it drove the other man crazy, before pulling back again.

“Welcome home, Sherlock,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”

“Probably as much as I missed you,” Sherlock managed to reply, words like that still difficult for him to say. “It’s wonderful to be back.”


End file.
